Double Take
by Isis the Sphinx
Summary: The future is uncertain. The Earth has been attacked and ravaged by aliens. Shannon isn't sure of things in the 21st century. Perhaps the late 19th isn't so bad. A SH/DW xover. Watch the Angels! Don't Blink! Whatever you do, don't blink!


Oh boy. I've gone and jumped on the bandwagon. I'm writing a Sherlock Holmes crossover with an OC in it. Have I lost my _mind? _I really hope not. Anyway, as a writer of Holmes fiction, and a reader as well, I promise not to do these things:

Turn my OC into a mary-sue. I hate those things, and have written enough of them to know what not to do.

Beat the ever loving crud out of either Holmes or Watson. Now, I like Holmes and Watson!Whump just as much as the next person. But it has no place in my story. There will be injuries, but nothing too life-threatening.

My OC will NOT take over the story. As in, she will not become a third in the detective duo.

My OC will not have a romantic relationship with either Holmes or Watson. She is young, they are at least 35. No.  
If I do any of these things, feel free to flame my butt off.

Everything else is up for grabs. *snicker*

Inspiration comes from _all _the 'girl goes back in time' stories and **_KCS_**, for her amazing Sherlock Holmes/Star Trek stories.

Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. And I don't own Sherlock Holmes either, even though that's in the public domain.

Without further ado.....

* * *

Double Take

* * *

The arrival of one Miss Shannon Tobler was one of great mystery. Her initial story was fraught with holes, and she even admitted to them when they were revealed. However, she did not tell us her true story until she had known us for quite a while. Even then, we had almost not believed her until she had given us proof. And that proof was scarier than almost anything we had imagined.

Even with this behind her, Miss Tobler had realized early on the friendship between myself and Holmes, and had done everything in her power to help either of us when we needed it, including when we didn't know we needed it. Her presence was one of enthusiasm and love of life, and she was a bright spot of support in a dark time of my life.

----Dr. John Watson, 1903

* * *

Holmes was in one of black moods again. It was the middle of April of 1889, and there had been few cases this year so far. The last one of any importance was "Silver Blaze," and that had been in October of last year. There had been a few, simple to solve cases every now and then, but nothing to truly invigorate Holmes' brilliant mind.

Chilly, wet weather had marched its way into London and had decided to stay. This did not help Holmes' mood any, nor did it mine. To compound things, the ache in my shoulder and leg had not ceased since the end of March. The spring rains still fell frequently on the streets of London, making them slick with sludge and water. Tonight we were sitting in a comfortable, if restless, silence, I with my notebook and pencil and Holmes with a pipe, both of us in our armchairs before the fire. The silence was completely shattered by a banging at the front door. This was immediately followed by a young voice shouting for me.  
"Doctor!"

"Wiggins?" This got Holmes' attention. The Baker Street Irregulars did not come charging in without some information on a case, and they did not come calling for me, of all people.

"Doctor, need ya in the kitchen."

Questions could be saved for later. I grabbed my bag and rushed down the flight of seventeen stairs, ignoring my leg, Holmes following a second behind. I made it to the kitchen in what was almost record time and immediately noticed an oddly dressed girl sitting very still at the kitchen table. Mrs. Hudson was trying to get her attention by shaking her shoulder, to no avail.

"Mrs. Hudson, she's got a mild case of shock. Let me." I grabbed a strong vial of smelling salts from my bag and uncapped it. Shoving it under her nose got the right effect. Hazel eyes went wide behind green wired rimmed glasses.

"Gyaaaaaah!" She swiped at her nose and jumped back to unconsciously get rid of the smell. "Where am I?" Her voice was quiet, I almost didn't hear it.

"221b Baker Street." Her pointed look asked for more. "London." There's surprise there on her face, but it's quickly covered.

"Miss, who are you and what happened? I can help you." Holmes was certainly interested now. All his attention was on her, taking in the long brown hair, pale skin, and vividly colored clothes. It's the distraction he'd been looking for, and I'm glad it came. He'd been eyeing the Moroccan case tonight and I'd been hoping he would decide against it or that a case would come up.

She took a moment before explaining herself. She had to tilt her head back to meet Holmes' eyes.

"My name's Shannon Tobler." The American accent was striking, now that I could hear her voice properly. "I was at the local farmers fair, in Maryland. Just something fun the area does every year that brings in an extra bit of money. I had split off from my family and was heading back when something hit the back of my head. First thing I remember after that was waking up in an alley."

Holmes' eyebrows furrowed together. I could tell he didn't believe her, but he decided to leave it after I glared at him. He could interrogate her when she wasn't so shaken. "Um…" I looked back at her. "Do you have any disinfectant? I had to get by a couple of drunken idiots in an alley." She revealed the back of her hands from under the table, and the knuckles of the right one were red, scrapped and bleeding. Except the one with the garnet ring on it. Whoever she punched must have a very torn up face. This girl was full of surprises.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Eighteen." She was quiet while I bandaged her fingers and only clenched her jaw when the alcohol stung.

"Wiggins," Holmes' voice was sharp. "Where did you meet Miss. Tobler?"

"Down on Piccadilly, Mr. 'Olmes. Ran right into me, she did. Grabbed me an' asked if ah knew where she could get help. Brought her here, sir."

"You can go now, Wiggins."

"She gonna be ok, Mr. 'Olmes?" Holmes nodded. As much as he didn't like or trust the fairer sex, he was considerate to them when he had to be.

Mrs. Hudson bustled after Wiggins, reminding him to keep dry and such.

Holmes immediately dissected Miss. Tobler's story. It seemed he couldn't wait any longer. "While I can believe you are American from your accent, the rest of your story does not fit.

"Your clothes are very richly colored, an odd weave that I would not associate with cotton, and not worn enough to be clothes of a farmer's daughter. Your hands do not have the calluses that a farmer would have, and that ring indicates a much higher status, because it most likely cost much more than any farmer could buy. You are a member of upper society if anything, and keeping a hostage unconscious for the amount of time it takes to get to London from America is difficult. Also, why would your captors release you if they had you a whole country away?" Holmes looked vaguely smug. Liars never did well in front of him.

The glare that came from the girl was surprisingly heated. However, she quickly recovered herself and wiped the expression off her face. "It was the best I could come up with in a minute," Her voice was cold. "I am sorry,_ sir_, if it does not meet your approval."

"Then what really is your story?"

She swallowed, but continued in that icy, clipped voice. "Does it matter? I'm very much at your mercy. I have no clothes besides what's on my back, and no friends or family to go to here in London." She took off her ring and held it up. "I will work for the roof over my head, and pawning off this ring should cover any other expenses." It was quite a beautiful ring, nine garnets in a detailed cut, arranged in a diamond formation. A silver band kept the gems on her finger.

Mrs. Hudson had returned in the middle of Holmes' questioning of Miss. Tobler and had been watching from the corner. At this admittance of temporary homelessness, Mrs. Hudson's motherly habits revealed themselves. "Dear, you may stay here. There is room with me, and there is always something that needs to be done."

Miss. Tobler smiled. It was small, but there all the same. "Thank you, Mrs…?"

"Hudson. Were you introduced at all?" Miss Tobler shook her head.

"That is my mistake, I believe. Forgive me, Miss Tobler. My name is Dr. John Watson and my associate is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

She nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Watson, for your assistance." Mrs. Hudson led Miss. Tobler out of the kitchen, supposedly to get her accommodated.

"I don't trust her."

"Why not?" This was an expected reaction to the situation, though an unwanted one. "Holmes, she's simply a lost girl, separated from everything she knew. She hasn't committed a crime."

"Nothing fits with her. I've never seen clothes or material like that in my life. And her story does not fit. Why would her kidnappers take her to another country and then just leave her in an alley? It makes no _sense_, Watson."

"Well, you can at least leave it until she is more comfortable. I doubt you'll get any more out of her at the moment. She did side-step that particular question rather well. I am off, Holmes. Mary expects me to be home for supper."

"Yes, yes." Holmes waved at me vaguely. "Go have dinner with Mary. I shall see you later."

I left Baker Street pondering the sudden appearance of the American girl, Miss. Tobler. She struck me then as a very singular person. And she was put off by Holmes' deductions of her, but not surprised. Perhaps she had heard of Holmes' abilities. News of him has made it to America. No matter. It was another puzzle for Holmes and he'd turn it over and over in his mind until he solved it.

* * *

Shannon's POV

Sometime in the late 1800's. I really don't know.

It's only now that I've been able to get my hands on paper and a pencil. If I don't write all this down now, I'll wake up tomorrow and think I've gone mad. Victorian England…How in heaven did I get here? One moment I'm in Maryland, April of 2009, and the next, (after a bit with a stone angel that defies all explanation) I'm in the late 1800's in England.

Now, don't get me wrong, I've always wanted to go to England, London especially, but this is a little much!

* * *

"Hey, Minnie, do you think you could hold my stuff? I have to run to the bathroom." She nodded, and I trotted off towards the porta-johns on the other side of the grounds. It was my second year at the Renaissance festival, and this time I was dressed up for it. A full length skirt, (That had a pair of shorts under it. I'm sorry, but it's just too cold otherwise!) dark purple in color, black leather boots that were knee height kept the wet out. A gauzy purple shirt was under a tight ribbed purple and black tube top, giving the impression of a tunic and corset. To finish off the ensemble, a blue cloak kept the early spring chill off my shoulders. I felt pretty proud of myself, not having to make or scramble to find all the pieces to it.

The area the porta-johns were in was separated by an alleyway of fences into a cul-de-sac. Ten of them stood there, lining the cul-de-sac in a horseshoe shape. At the entrance to the cul-de-sac was a statue; at first I thought it was a prop that someone had forgotten and left there. I gave it a closer look. It was an angel, designed with a Greco-Roman theme in mind. Short, wavy hair with a headband, long tunic with a rope around its waist, sandals with straps that wrapped up its calves. Oddest thing about it was that its hands were hiding its face, like it was crying. "Huh. A weeping Angel. Crying over human's sins?" I shrugged it off and went to do my business.

I come out and the thing had _moved_.

I'm not talking 'got-picked-up-and-put-somewhere-else' but got up, moved by itself, and sat back down into stone. I'm not kidding. It was ten feet away from my specific porta-john when I came out. At first I thought it was a joke. They make these Renaissance fairs so realistic that they even have a few thieves mixed in the place. I looked 'round and no one was there. And the thing had moved again.

It was right in front of my face.

Arms raised, fingers outstretched, mouth open. The thing even had _fangs_. I jumped three feet because the thing was so close. My heart rate was up, I was breathing hard, and that _thing_ was right _there_.

And then I blinked.

And everything went to Hell in a hand basket.

Next thing I knew, I was in a dark, gross, cramped, messy alley with a headache the size of Manhattan.

The headache was nothing new. I got headaches all the time, courtesy of my grandmother's genetics. What _was_ new was my surroundings. And wasn't it just daytime a minute ago? It looked like the sun had gone down a long time before hand, wherever I was.

They say when you get lost that you're supposed to stay in one place and let people find you. I think that went out the window when statues started to _move_.

I picked a direction at random. And I admit I screamed when a rat the size of a dog went by me next to the wall. I didn't think they got that _big_. I was just beginning to calm down when some guy walked in front of me. He wasn't all that tall, maybe 5'9", but plenty broad. And it was his clothes that caught my attention. Who wore a pea-coat anymore? And mind—only reason I knew it was a pea-coat was 'cause Minnie had a fascination with Victorian England and insisted on dragging me to every movie night she had. The movies were always book remakes. Personally I could care less, and I absolutely hated Jane Austen.

Anyway, this guy in front of me was getting way too close into my personal space. "Where ya goin', sweetheart?" He slurred his words. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. Damn. He's drunk. There was a crash behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw another couple of guys coming up behind me.

I was going to get mugged.

Oh hell no. Uh-uh.

"Nowhere with you. Now if you'll excuse me…"

I went to walk by him in one last hope he was too drunk to do anything. Nope. He blocked me and grabbed my upper left arm. Oh, wrong move. I punched him in the face. Now, this did three things. One, it gave the idiot in front of me a bloody face thanks to the very hard and sharp garnet ring on my right hand. Two, that punch hurt my hand a lot. A person doesn't punch a face without feeling it. Three, it gave me a chance to run. I took it. The three men were too drunk to keep up, but they still tried.

Didn't matter. Ran as fast as I could. Don't remember much at this point. Think the shock was kicking in. I remember running into some street kid and asking him to get me to help. After he dragged me somewhere, we went through a door and someone sat me down at a table. Don't remember sitting down. Clarity kicked back in when someone shoved something really bad smelling up my nose.

"Gyaaaaah!" That smell! If that's what smelling salts smelled like I know why people made such good use of them! That smell would wake the dead!

I took in my surroundings. I was sitting at a kitchen table. There was a kid and an older woman to one side, and two guys to the other. One guy was capping a small vial and placing it back in a black bag. A doctor then? "Where am I?" The 'doctor' answered.

"221b Baker Street." I asked for more with a look. "London." Oh dear God, how'd I get to England? I know they saw my surprise, but I didn't let them see for long. The 'cold' mask was working well for me at the moment.

The other guy comes forward and immediately starts pelting me with questions. I don't even register them at first. He's _tall_. _Very_ tall. 6'2" easy. Maybe 6'3". Light skin, almost as pale as mine. An angular jaw with thin lips, a hawk-like nose, and piercing eyes. Hard, grey eyes. Looked like a hard statue himself. That stare, though. That stare sent shivers down my spine.

Wait, what he ask? Oh yeah… my name, what happened to me, ect.

"My name is Shannon Tobler." I think the American accent surprised them. I told him a modified story of what little I could understand. I'm still trying to figure out what happened myself. I don't think he believed my story. Oh boy.

My hand brought itself to my attention when it started stinging furiously. "Uhm…do you have any disinfectant? I had to get by a couple of drunken idiots in one alley." I brought my hands to the tabletop and watched as both men's eyebrows went to their hairline. What? A girl can't defend herself? Riiight. Victorian England means that females are wimpy.

The doctor asked me how old I was. Makes sense, I have a tendency to look younger than I am.

The alcohol stung, and the doctor noticed that I didn't make a sound, even if I flinched. He was even nice enough to wrap my hand.

The other guy was talking again, but not to me. Wow. The street kid had a really hard cockney accent. His name was Wiggins. The other guy's name was Holmes.

Wait a minute. Holmes-plus-221b Baker Street-plus-a doctor nearby-equals-_Craaaaaaaaaap._

Wait.

Breathe.

I can freak out that I'm meeting Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson _later_. Find a place to stay safe first.

Holmes looked at me. He looked smug. Oh great, he found holes in my story. Heck, _I _found holes in my story.

"While I can believe you are from America from your accent, the rest of your story does not fit.

"Your clothes are very richly colored, an odd weave that I would not associate with cotton, and not worn enough to be clothes of a farmer's daughter. Your hands do not have the calluses that a farmer would have, and that ring indicates a much higher status, because it most likely cost much more than any farmer could buy. You are a member of upper society if anything, and keeping a hostage unconscious or captive for the amount of time it takes to get to London from America is difficult. Also, why would your captors release you if they had you a whole country away?"

No Shit, Sherlock! Think I don't know that? If glares could kill, Holmes would've been dead from two shots to the head.

"It was the best I could come up with in a minute," I do hope he heard my attitude. I had a headache, my hand was sore, and I did not know if I was going to have to live off the streets in the next few minutes. "I am sorry, _sir_, if it does not meet your approval."

"Then what really is your story?"

"Does it matter? I'm very much at your mercy. I have no clothes besides what's on my back, and no friends or family to go to." Dad always said; make sure to take care of yourself, regardless of the cost. I could do that. My garnet ring would easily pawn off for a lot of money. Thank you QVC. "I will work for a roof over my head, and pawning off this ring should cover any other expenses."

Saved by the matron! "Dear, you may stay here. There is room with me, and there is always something that needs to be done." My relief must have been visible, I felt it so strongly. "Thank you, Mrs…?" I knew what her name was, but saying it out loud without being told was a bad thing.

"Hudson. Were you introduced at all?" I shook my head.

Watson spoke up. "That is my mistake, I believe. Forgive me, Miss Tobler. My name is Dr. John Watson and my associate is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Oh, my. He was so polite. That got to me, even though I was expecting it. "Thank you, Dr. Watson, for your assistance." Mrs. Hudson guided me out of the kitchen, then. She continually fussed over me all the way to her room, where she promptly started to make up a small couch. I think it was called a settee. "Mrs. Hudson, please! Let me help you."

"Is this good enough? I could always—"

I held up a hand. "I'd be fine on the floor with a pillow and a couple of blankets. This is more than enough. Though…" I trailed off. "…Could I have some paper and a pencil? Writing things down helps me sleep." That part was true. I did keep a diary.

Mrs. Hudson happily agreed.

* * *

Well, here I am. Would now be good time to freak out over the fact that I am easily 100 years before my time and an ocean away from my home? And I _still_ haven't figured out the exact date.

I am so screwed.

---Shannon Eva Tobler

* * *

End chapter one.

Now, just to let you all know, in this little world of mine, Sherlock Holmes really did exist. So any references will be made as if they were historical figures. Shannon is playing the game, folks. As to the Doctor Who 'verse, it really was 2009 when she left. So that means she's experienced "Army of Ghosts" and "Doomsday" along with "Stolen Earth" She also went through "Last of the Time Lords" hence the tapping. But she doesn't remember. I don't think the habit would go away with a simple turning back in time. So, Shannon is a very independent girl who really isn't afraid of a gun being pointed at her because she's faced Daleks. Twice.

Read, review, multiply by 42?


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